


My Dad Can Totally Beat Up Your Dad

by Dragoneisha



Series: my dad is cooler than your dad [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Asshole Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider, Bro Strider Copes By Ruining Everything Around Him, Coming In Pants, Fighting Kink, Fights, Light Masochism, M/M, Muteness, Post-Canon, Rehabilitation, Selectively Mute Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoneisha/pseuds/Dragoneisha
Summary: Wherein Bro Strider learns a thing or two about manners. Maybe.Or maybe he just receives some Stern Fatherly Disapproval, and learns nothing from it.





	My Dad Can Totally Beat Up Your Dad

**Author's Note:**

> yes, bro strider does not know dad egberts name. however, it is james. 
> 
> does he have a daddy kink? maybe but im not writing that 
> 
> thanks to the strilondes + friends shipping discord for cheering me on while i scrawled this out and to [Boarding Sporty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boarding_Sporty) for the title

It took a lot shorter of a time than it really should have to wear him down.

Yes, Ambrose had had to put some intense focus into the little things. Yes, he'd had to hang around at all hours, stealing little moments and little tastes of his fucking decadent cooking (holy shit, who even needs that many flavors? He's still getting over "food that isn't takeout") and yes, he'd had to get a little more touchy than he'd expected to get his attention. Yes, yes, yes. Bro Strider had actually _tried_ for this one.

Hey, he's allowed to get elbow-deep in the messy enema-cleansed ass of an ill-advised rehab fuck with a guy who he is sure can handle him, that's why he's rehabbing in the first place. Why he hasn't gone looking for anybody blonde and skinny and a lot less nervous than before. He's becoming His Own Person, quote-unquote, TM, copyright, whatever other bullshit can explain the way the uptight little girl who decided she was going to tell him what to do stated his future in perfect calligraphy. Like, how could she even do that with her mouth?

It's like talking in emojis. One shouldn't be able to do it, and those that can are just cursed objects given human form.

Anyway.

Past Copyright Bitch, Bro had been keeping an eye on the hunk of man meat that was apparently her father, or maybe little boy blue's father? He's really not sure on that one, which he doesn't like, but Personality Rehab says he Has To Accept That He Can't Know Everything In The World, which just sounds like cowardly bullshit to him.

But he's pushed over the little things, stolen spoonfuls of cake mix, replaced whisks with poorly secured dog brushes, so Bro can count it as a success. He's got Buff Dad's attention.

What Bro Strider didn't expect was that the first thing to wear down was not Buff Dad's mental barrier, nor his ingrained heterosexuality, but instead, his patience.

The man is in the middle of making biscuits when Bro sneaks up on him again. He's just on this side of peeved, Bro can almost taste it, like he's the snake that used to wrap his hands and flick its tongue into his eyes he always saw during his sleep paralysis. (He hasn't dreamed of it since waking up alive again, but sometimes he misses the feeling of being terrified, just because the hell he used to live is familiar. This newness freaked him out. Thus, he'd fall back into his old habits, and terrorizing this Hot Buff Dad is right up his alley.)

So while Bro is tasting annoyance, he takes a minute to stealth right up behind him, slipping out of flashstep without a sound. He eyes the hairy arms that are so very rarely exposed, enjoys the way the man's button-up sleeves are rolled to his elbows so he can work with the biscuit dough, and very much enjoys the way he can follow the lines of tension all the way up to the tendon that stands out in his neck when Bro takes a handful of his ass and squeezes.

He schools his face into the perfect uncaring smirk, a shade shy of snarling, as Buff Dad drops the dough back in the bowl. He can almost feel the air pressure drop as the collected man he's fondling takes what must be the Deepest Breath of All Time.

"Mr. Strider," says Buff Dad, you know, he should get around to learning his name already so he can call him something other than Buff Dad, Hot Dad, or Silver Fox, "I would appreciate if you could get your, I'm certain very _nimble_ hands off of my posterior."

He half-turns around, and Bro waits until he can see the very corner of that dark iris before he reaches forward and plants his other hand right in the middle of the biscuit dough.

 _Sticky,_ is the first thought that comes to his head. Intelligent as always, Ambrose. The next is, _Should watch that way his brow twitches. Two inches up, one inch over from the left eyebrow, a vein (must be supratrochlear) is twitching. Anger?_

Bro takes a handful of the dough and flicks it in Buff Boy's face.

Bro's talent has always been in avoidance. Once an opponent starts for him, he can flashstep easy as anything. Speed and dexterity has always been his forte. He can't be beat in speed, not even by the short, uppity little shit that wears his face (even if he tries).

So it's quite a shock when he feels a rough, strong, _broad_ hand curl in his collar and yank him in close, and Bro's hands go up by his shoulders to start to try and wriggle out, but he can already tell that he's well and truly stuck.

He has time for very few more thoughts. They are, in order, _This man is about to kick my ass,_ and, _Oh, fuck yes, Daddy._

Bro Strider sees stars.

He comes back to his own head slowly, but once the dam's broken, it's broken. Bro can't help the guttural little noise of pain as he tries to wrinkle his nose and the entire right side of his face bursts into pain-flames. Ouch.

He takes stock. Something is digging into his back, likely L2 - no, L1 vertebrae. His back's a little sore from something. Collision with whatever he's leaning on? Yes. Likely bruising, but less than his face, a week to heal max. A movement of his arm across a cool surface - alright, that's the other countertop. Bro takes a moment to enjoy the fact that Buff Dad just decked him literally across the room, before he lifts his arm and presses the inside of his wrist against his rapidly bruising face.

Nothing is broken, he gathers from a quick wellness check, but something tells him it very easily could have been.

He lets himself hang there, for a second, cracks an eye open to assess the situation. His shades are cockeyed. He doesn't like that.

Bro gets an eyeful of pert, fatherly ass, because Buff Dad has turned back to his biscuit-making. Oh, how he wishes his pride could let that stand. Alas. It's ass-beating time.

While he's still playing downed-not-dead, Bro lets out a high-pitched little breath, and assesses his target with sharp eyes. Nothing in his hands, no possible specibi save fistkind, and he can thrash a fistkind user in .045 seconds flat anyway. Not even a wooden spoon or whisk to be clumsily allocated into spoonkind. Buff Dad is kneading the dough with his sexy, sexy arms.

He presses his shoes flat to the linoleum, breathes in nice and slow like he's trying to get his head on straight after being whooped across the kitchen, and then he flickers mid-throwing himself to snap into existence next to Hot Baker Dad and -

_Oh god oh fuck what the hell he's never seen anyone grab him that fast before and he got killed by a god-furry -_

Bro manages to get in a solid hit to the ribs before he's thrown ass over teakettle out of the kitchen, and the shitty saloon doors may open at the slightest provocation but he still hits them pretty goddamn hard before he goes skidding across the carpet.

Goodbye, half of the skin on his arm, it was nice having you.

He won't fall for that again. Bro flashsteps as he rolls back to his feet, flickering in and out of sight as he crosses the thirty or so feet (35.42 if he had to eyeball it) that he was thrown. This is a proper strife now, even if he is no longer allowed swords because of his status in rehab.

It doesn't really occur to him that fighting one of his hosts is a pretty shit way to get out of rehab.

Bro calculates in midair. If he goes from the open side, the one facing the door, it leaves him open to another swing from those brick fists he's got. He doesn't rule out the possibility that Capable Buff Dad is ambidextrous, but if he comes from the other side it'll be less likely Kit Fist-O over here will expect him. So he taps the tip of his toe against the counter, somersaults over a salt-and-peppered head, and slams the heel of his right foot into Buff Dad's left shoulder with all the momentum of an irritated flashstepping 32-year-old man who won't admit he's more than 29.

The fucker doesn't budge.

Not only does he not budge, Buff Dad has the audacity to move in the _other direction,_ and only the momentum Bro has going saves him from the very professional swing that whiffs right over his head.

Alright, so he _is_ ambidextrous. Bro keeps that in mind as he hops the kitchen island and looks for a - hey wait a minute he was sure there were knives in this knife rack earlier, what gives.

His brief moment of confusion, along with a hefty dose of luck, is enough for Bro to get caught back up in calculations that used to go so much faster when he let someone else have the reins while he was doing them.

(He misses Cal.)

Ambrose Strider has only enough time to bite back a nervous "Yipe" as he feels a broad hand knot in the back of his shirt. He somehow missed a man that was built like a brick wall coming up behind him, at speed of at least 34.7 miles per hour given the distance between them and the fact that he can't imagine Buff Dad vaulting anything, much less a kitchen island, and he's going to suffer for it.

The mixing bowl breaking over his head is not how he expected this to go.

_Oh. Jokerkind._

_Yeah, that makes sense._

He's knocked for a loop, and he might as well be on a goddamn rollercoaster at this point, except he doesn't usually get concussions and uncomfortable boners from rollercoasters. (Well, he might. It occurs to him in this moment he's never been on a rollercoaster.)

(It occurs to him a moment after that he is concussed, and that is probably why he's thinking about rollercoasters.)

He gasps, his eyes covered by - something - it takes Bro longer than he'd like to admit to realize it's biscuit dough that's all over his head, and that's not blood he feels weighing his hair down, it's motherfucking proto-biscuit. But biscuits don't explain why he can still feel something on his back. It's not blood or sweat because it's not dripping.

Bro goes through every option he can in quick succession, but it's clarified that it is Sexy Fight Dad's hand when the other one clamps onto his leg like a vice.

Bro makes a noise that is far too similar to Scooby-Doo for him to be comfortable.

Man, that dog's a fucking legend.

He hates dogs.

Bro tries to throw an elbow back, but he only just barely clips something hard, which could be Buff Dad's manly chin but could also have been the wall, they feel about the same. He can't do anything to stop himself being lifted, but he does notice that Buff Dad's upper body strength is to fucking die for, and also that his grip is strong but slicked just slightly by leftover biscuit dough. Maybe he can use that to his advantage.

Before he gets the opportunity, Bro Strider is thrown unceremoniously through the kitchen window.

_Oh fuck, it just keeps happening._

Bro bounces when he hits the ground, he feels his sunglasses fly the fuck off his head to land somewhere out of sight, and he does a nice very-not-youth-roll as he tumbles along the dirt.

He hits a tree and gets the breath knocked out of him, and he can just barely feel the ends of his fingers as he claws at the moist dirt beneath him. He hates being dirty. He hates it so, so much, but he can feel it under his nails, there's no escaping it now.

Bro claws similarly for consciousness, but honestly, it's a losing battle. Too many hits to the head, and he hasn't lost a fight in a long time. As much as his rankled pride demands he stand back up, he doesn't have a childish voice in his ear anymore, demanding he defend his manhood at any cost. Instead, he has his own voice, which says, _Wow, everything hurts,_ and settles down for a catnap.

He can just barely see polished shoes approaching him from the odd angle his neck is cocked at. Whoever that is, Bro doesn't have the energy to defend himself.

Besides, he doesn't really want to stand up. He's tired, he's done, he's tapping out. Maybe he'll die. (He doesn't feel enough blood on him to justify him dying, though. Figures.)

Also, well.

There's a 99.98% chance that he jizzed his pants when he hit the window.

Bro slips into blessed unconsciousness.


End file.
